The Fearless Three
by IronAmerica
Summary: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero. Seize the day, trusting little in the future. Well, that's what happens when 3 time travellers show up in WWII. Paradoxes and confusion abound.
1. Arrival

-1Title: The Fearless Three

Disclaimer: I own the Fearless Three(back off!) and a semi-developed plot. (Sorry Tirathon)

Summary: The Fearless Three are some of the most unusual pilots in 1943. The commander is a black major, the captain is a homicidal Georgian, and they've got a shy super smart lieutenant. What are the heroes going to do?

O0o0o

RATATATATATATATAT! Major James Brummer, USAF, gave off an extremely violent oath, yanking his command column to the right, avoiding another barrage. "DAMNIT PEOPLE!" he roared, temper flaring. "Get your damn radios on this groups frequency NOW! I don't want to have to shoot these cusses!" He pulled his F-22 into a steep climb, narrowly avoiding another barrage from the insane re-enactors in the Spitfires. Who the hell flew those anymore, anyways? And what had he been thinking, volunteering his squad for that experiment? He was now two hours late for his wedding anniversary with his wife.

"Sir? Major Brummer?" A tentative voice crackled over his radio. _O'Neill_ Brummer thought. "Sir, I have the correct frequency. Should I give it to Captain Newman so he can talk to them?" Brummer sighed internally. He would love for O'Neill to get over his crippling shyness, because Newman was about as subtle as a tank. "No, lieutenant. I want you to talk to these half-cocked amateurs. See why the hell they're firing at us."

Dominic cringed, wishing he could find a way out of talking to the Spitfires. He sighed mentally, and flipped open his radio channel. He listened to the short bouts of talk, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Nazis and German super planes? What? "Spitfire pilots this is Lieutenant O'Neill, USAF. Hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire. Over."

Group commander Roberts had heard of many strange things, but what was the USAF? Was it something the Nazis had come up with? "Lieutenant O'Neill, the RAF does not recognize any USAF. You are trespassing in our airspace. You will accompany us to a secure location, where you will be detained for questioning. Over." Roberts clicked off, and waited for a reply from the Kraut pilot.

After conferring briefly with his superiors, and ignoring several crude comments from captain Newman, he responded to Group-commander Roberts. "Group-commander Roberts, the USAF has always been on good terms with the RAF. In the interest of national security, we will comply. Over." Dom grimaced._ Mostly for our sanity_ he thought, wondering why the heck the RAF was flying in Spitfires.

O0o0o

Group-commander Roberts had seen many strange things in his life, but this was probably the strangest. The aircraft looked like something out of a science-fiction story, and looked deadlier than a B-17. And that didn't even include the pilots. A black major was unusual. Roberts smelled the proverbial rat. The captain was also very odd, standing a 5'11", and looking at everyone with the eyes of a killer. The lieutenant whom he had spoken with was probably the one that was normal, apart from the fact that he couldn't be more than twenty.

Captain Newman looked around, wondering what the hell he had gotten into this time. He was surrounded by people that didn't belong anywhere but history books, or a movie. They were also looking at him strangely. Hadn't they ever seen a Georgian? Sure, he was five feet eleven inches, but the NBA had people who were taller. He immediately wished he hadn't taken off his flight helmet, because he was pretty sure he was blushing.

Lieutenant O'Neill wasn't a genius, but he could tell when somebody was sizing you up. The hostility and testosterone levels he was feeling wasn't exactly comforting either. He tapped his leg in what seemed to be a nervous habit, but to the trained eye was Morse code. Major Brummer dipped his head a fraction, and O'Neill felt sick. Brummer was going to make him answer these nutcases' questions. He hated talking to people he didn't know. Didn't' anyone realize that?

O0o0o0

Major Brummer ran through the ever growing list of why he hated the RAF, for the umpteenth time. Two days of intensive questioning by people who he had studied at WestPoint, and no one had thought contact General Travers yet. Something very fishy was going on. He was also going to have a few choice words with the general when they finally got back to base.

A door creaked open and a shaking lieutenant O'Neill was escorted into the cell block. As he passed Brummer cell, the dark man held out a small item. "Lieutenant, here's your ring." The slight youth took it, and snarled at a guard who tried to take it. The man wisely backed down.

Another cell was unlocked, and Dominic shoved in none to gently. Obviously he had managed to drive them partially insane again. The young man took the phrase "sing like a canary" a bit too literally.

The RAF guards approached a cell at the far end of the block cautiously. The large occupant stood and cracked his knuckles, leering at the two men. "Hello boys. Ah promise Ah won't hurt you. Much." Newmangave them his "I'm-giong-to eat-you-alive" grinand the extremely nervous guards led him off for more questioning.

As soon as the three were out of hearing range, Brummer turned his gaze to O'Neill. "What did the wonderful RAF ask this time? Anything besides the normal classified information?" Big jade green eyes locked onto his brown ones, full of fear. "N-no sir. J-just the usual. And about bugs."

Major Brummer sighed. 'Bugs' meant that O'Neill had seen some surveillance equipment, and that they couldn't talk freely. Didn't the RAF trust them? They were on the same side. Almost… "How'd you handle our wonderful friend, the drill sergeant?"

Dominic stifled a laugh, remembering the story behind the nickname. It was a long one, but suffice it to say that the three had had the same drill sergeant in boot camp. No one liked him. " He doesn't like rock'n'roll sir." Brummer groaned, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was. "I sang Black Betty by Ram Jam." It was. For being a genius, the kid was an idiot.

Brummer cared about everyone under his command, and what happened to them, but what O'Neill brought upon himself… He felt no pity for the youth. As his mother had said, you reap what you sow. He was surprised that O'Neill hadn't died during "questioning" yet, prone as he was to smartass comments. He told O'Neill to get some rest, and sank into a meditative state, trying to sort himself out for his next session. He couldn't afford to give anything away, especially if what he thought was happening was. It would not do to give away anything related to future events. He already had enough of a headache without trying to sort out temporal paradoxes. After all, the consequences would no doubt be disastrous.

The door to the cell block crashed open and twelve guards marched in, lining up against the walls. Brummer was startled out of his meditation, and ran the short distance to his cell door. What was going on? A quick glance showed that lieutenant O'Neill was having the same thoughts. Had someone finally discovered their error, or were they going to be shot?

Someone wearing a lot of medals stepped up to the cells, and had them unlocked. "Gentleman, if you will follow me?" He motioned to the door, and the confused USAF officers headed for the doors. "All will be explained, in due time" the mystery guide said, leading them down a corridor different than the one leading to interrogation.

The journey ended when the large group reached a large oak door. The man turned to the twelve guards and said "Wait outside until I call for you." The men nodded, and Brummer and O'Neill followed the mysterious man into an office. The office had been occupied by two men, one being a rather confused Newman, and a dark-haired colonel. Army air corps, if the uniform was any indicator.

"Colonel Hogan, these are the rest of the men I had contacted you about." Brummer frowned, trying to place the name. He knew he had heard it somewhere. Where, though? It was definitely familiar.

Colonel Robert Hogan, USAAC, turned around, his customary smile in place. "A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. Headquarters asked me to drop in and verify your stories." He took stock of the two new arrivals, scrutinizing them as he would a gem, or a particularly interesting bug. The major looked trustworthy, but suspicious and slightly stony. He reminded Hogan of Kinch. The lieutenant looked nervous, or perhaps it was a smokescreen. He also had one amazing black eye, an indicator that interrogation hadn't been easy. _Good God_ Hogan thought, _he's younger than Carter. What the hell were they thinking? Letting a child into the military._ Hogan didn't know what to think of the hulking man he had been talking to, other than the impression that the man liked causing pain. That in itself was slightly disturbing, and setting off alarm bells.

Brummer stared back at colonel Hogan, sizing the man up. If what was happening was what he thought was happening, than this wasn't the safest era to be in. Hopefully colonel Hogan wasn't a racist, or a member of the KKK. And why was that name driving him nuts? He had heard it somewhere before, but where?

Hogan stared back at the black major, and finally looked away. "General Butler, if we could finally get back to the matter of why you called us here? I have roll cal in a few hours."

General Butler, their mystery guide, smiled benignly. "Of course, colonel Hogan. Please gentlemen, be seated." Everyone sat in the offered chairs, and faced Butler, waiting for an explanation. "As you may know, we are locked in a stalemate with the Nazis. They have a new installation, and we can't get anywhere near enough to destroy it." He paused, waiting for everyone to register what he was saying. "Colonel Hogan can't risk any of his men, and certain parties have lost too many men trying to blow it up." He turned to thethree USAF pilots, who were catching on. "Which is where you come in, gentlemen. I've talked to my superiors, and they've agreed to see your helping us a sign of your loyalties."

Major Brummer saw exactly what the General was saying. The message was obvious. _You are expendable. We need your aircraft, but we can't fly them._ "Well, you're basically saying that if we blow a section of the European Union to kingdom come, you'll clear us of any charges of treason?" He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. Take that, and paradoxes be damned. He looked to his two subordinates, who were looking thoughtfully at general Butler.

"Major, I have no idea what this European Union is, but yes, we are asking you to send a Nazi installation sky high" Butler replied. "And you won't be taking lieutenant O'Neill with you. He'll be staying behind as collateral."

Major Brummer looked at O'Neill, who nodded shakily. "Very well, general Travers. We have an accord."

Butler nodded grimly, and said something unexpected. "From the reports, your aircraft have two seats. You'll take colonel Hogan with you." He smirked, thinking he had gained the upper hand.

O'Neill snickered, knowing the Hell Storm squadrons policy on backseat drivers. "Colonel, hold onto your seat for dear life." Hogan looked at him, eyebrows raised, but O'Neill said nothing.

"Let's get this over with" Newman said, exasperated. "Mighty Midget, don't stay up past your bedtime." Brummer, Newman, Hogan, and Butler walked out, leaving O'Neill alone.

o0o0o

Colonel Hogan did excatly as the kid "Mighty Midget" had told him. He held onto his seat for dear life. These planes were faster than a Spitfire! Major Brummer had said that the aircraft coulddo upwards of Mach3, but Hogan didn't care.

Major Brummer looked back at the dazed colonel Hogan, and grinned. They were still over the RAF airbase, so it was still safe to enact plan Zeta, a.k.a "Getting rid of backseat drivers". "Colonel, hang onto your seat" was all he said, before hitting an ejection seat button. "Bye-bye."

_A/N: I was talking to my dad a few months ago, and wondered what the joystick in an aircraft was called. He flipped out, and than gave me several different names for the joystick. I used command column. Apparently, a joystick is only for computer games._


	2. Harden Your Heart

_Okay, next installment. A command column, or for video gamers, a joystick, is what controls the air crafts movement. But you knew that already didn't you?_

"You did WHAT?!" The explosive shout could be heard halfway across the base. Nobody thought it was very strange, after all, since the three new arrivals had gotten to the base, strange things had been happening.

Lieutenant O'Neill couldn't believe that major Brummer had jettisoned colonel Hogan. The fact that he had been filled in almost two weeks later rankled him. "I can't believe this. Major Brummer, you're a higher ranking officer. You're supposed to be setting an example for me" he moaned. His infuriating superior just grinned.

"He was alright. Besides, weren't you the one that conned those corporals that I recruited into sabotaging a generals staff?" Brummer grinned at his subordinate, who was trying visibly to not laugh.

"They can't pin it on me" O'Neill said confidently. He sighed, and wandered over to the window, looking out. He felt rankled that he wasn't allowed to fly without an escort, and not above 600mph. Being the youngest member of the Fearless Three, heck just being a member, should have made him feel better. All Dom wanted to do was fly as fast as he could, and do stunt flying. He didn't do crazy stunts that often, but they helped release tension.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked into the face of major Brummer. "Cheer up, Mighty Midget. We might get another mission today. I think I can talk your handlers into staying behind this time if we do." O'Neill nodded gratefully. Major Brummer honestly did care about everyone. The man was everyone's best friend, if you could see past the "Ice King" exterior.

"As much as Ah hate to interrupt" a southern drawl came, "But the Brass are bayin' for blood. Particularly ya'll's." How Newman managed to sneak around as quietly as he did was always a mystery to O'Neill, who was trying to recover from heart failure.

"Alrighty then. Let's go see what the Brass wants." The trio departed from the large flat they shared, going to face the crowd.

O0o0o

'You want WHAT?!" The second explosion of the day was heard from the vicinity of general Butler's office. This time, it was major Brummer that had exploded. "You want me to train people to pilot MY AIRCRAFT?!"

Air-marshal Whitman looked at the black man distastefully. "You will control your temper, major. General Butler has authorized it." A look at Butler showed that he was nodding.

"Fine" Brummer said, a lemon-sucking grimace on his face. "I'll train them. Anyone can sign up, but they have to make it past Hell week first." That should take care of any potential problems. Almost 99 of the applicants in his normal time had washed out from fear, exhaustion, or stress. O'Neill had been one of the lucky, or perhaps unlucky, 1.

"What's hell week?" Whitman asked, looking intrigued. Brummer smirked, looking like the cat that ate the canary. "It's special training that all recruits are put through at the start, to see how they hold up in extreme situations. _Sir_." He ground out the last word, as though it were painful.

"Hm. It sounds interesting. Does it work?" This was from general Butler. Brummer looked at O'Neill, a significant look on his face. "Ah." Apparently Butler now thought that most of the successful recruits ended up stuttering, or afraid of their own shadow.

O0o0o

_One month later… _"Congratulations, to the newest generation of Hell Storm squadron." Brummer looked at the tiny handful of new recruits, something akin to pride on his face. "You are now part of an elite cadre of pilots. If you manage to survive your first mission, I will personally buy every single one of you a beer."

Ripples of laughter spread among the twelve or so men assembled. If major Brummer said something like that, chances were he would. Which in itself was a miracle, as he very rarely offered to do anything like this. "However, for those of you who were hoping to become Raptor pilots, that is a privilege you'll probably never see in your lifetimes."

Captain Newman stepped up to the podium, casting a scathing look at Brummer. "As major Brummer conveniently forgot ta mention, everyone wants ta meet ya'll. In about twenty minutes, there's a party in the commons, so double time it if you want ta make it."

Everyone scrambled out of their seats, not wanting to miss the party. Newman watched the new Hell Stormers run like so many ants, a serious look on his face. "Well, that was fun" he commented, blasé. "Lets get to that party, shall we?"

O0o0o

Dominic tugged at the collar of his dress uniform, wondering if the tailor was out to get him. The annoying, simpering woman hanging onto his arm wasn't helping either. Being part of the Fearless Three didn't seem like such a great thing at the moment. This crazy lady was digging her nails into his arm, and was trying to parade him around like some prize-winning show dog. Enough. "Madame, while it may benefit you to be seen with me, I would like my arm back." The lady, Rhiannon something-or-other, ignored him. Obviously, being polite wasn't going to work. Now, to get over his fear of being in the spotlight. Now or never. "Lady, take a hike. I've got a girl waiting for me. Take a hint, and get lost!"

Rhiannon pouted at him, fluttering her eyelashes. Lieutenant O'Neill shook his head, a frown appearing on his cherubic features. She sighed, and flounced away, hips swaying.

"That's ma boy. Always scarin away the ladies" a deep voice chuckled. Dom whirled around, hand going to his holster. "Easy, midget. It's only lil' ol' me." Captain Newman stepped out of the shadows, his customary self-assured smirk in place. "If ah didn't know ya better, or Madeline, Ah'd swear ya were a deviant. Ah'll neva get ya Dom." Dirk Newman smiled at his short friend, who looked miffed. Newman ruffled the younger man's hair, and waltzed into the crowd, whistling the Transformers theme.

O'Neill smoothed his hair back into place, and grinned, shaking his head. Captain Newman had been everyone's annoying older brother from day one. He also took special pleasure in ribbing Dom about his dating habits from day one. Okay, so he didn't hit on every pretty girl he met. That was normal, for him at least.

"Sir?" a young RAF corporal tapped O'Neill on his shoulder. "Sorry to disturb you sir. There's been a development, and the high command wants to speak to the leaders of the Hell Storms." O'Neill nodded, and looked for his teammates. "Sir, they've been notified. If you'll follow me." Dom put his drink on a convenient table, and followed the corporal, wondering what was going on.

O0o0o

"Alright boys, this is your first official mission. We have decided to not use our normal aircraft, and we'll be flying Spitfires. This is so all of you can keep up." Brummer looked out at his twelve potentials, all full of life, and joy. "Kids, before we leave I'd like to say a prayer. It's something my wife told me, the first time I left for war. It's the prayer for the patron saint of travelers." Brummer bowed his head, and the fourteen other men followed his lead. "Dear Saint, you have inherited a beautiful name - Christbearer - as a result of a wonderful legend that while carrying people across a raging stream you also carried the Child Jesus. Teach us to be true Christbearers to those who do not know Him. Protect all those who often transport those who bear Christ within them. Amen."

Everyone headed to their aircraft, praying that the Saint would be with them. Brummer included his own private prayer to Saint Christopher. _Even though you aren't the patron of these men, watch over them, for they are travelers. I ask that you spare these young men, and take me if you find it necessary to protect them. Amen._

The sight of fifteen Spitfires was a something to behold. They were later compared to the fires of Apollo, or Prometheus as he brought fire to the humans. It would also be the last time many of them were seen again.

O0o0o

Hochstetter looked at the night sky, cursing the weather. If only he could control the clouds that were obscuring his vision. He raised his binoculars again, looking for the squadron he had been informed would be coming.

The formation appeared as a cloud bank rolled away, and Hochstetter grinned feraly. The Allies wouldn't know what had hit them. He turned to the gunnery crews behind him. "Fire."

O0o0o

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, come on, wake up." Dom groaned, rolling onto his side. "Issa Saturday, dad. Fi' mo' minutes." An insistent hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking him roughly. "Come on. Please wake up."

O'Neill finally gave up, and opened his eyes. Than he snapped fully awake. This wasn't the barracks, or his cockpit, or his room at home. He stared at the rough hewn stone wall, a deep frown appearing on his face. Taliban? Nope, back in 2008. Al-Qaeda? Nope, same thing as the Taliban. So who? He looked up, and saw some very concerned grey eyes.

Captain Newman looked at his friend in relief. He saw the lieutenant as the younger brother he had never had, and thus someone he had to look out for. "Someone knew we were comin'. Welcome ta the Gestapo Hilton." He instantly regretted his words as O'Neill's face distorted into a mask of fear. The kid really was naive, he realized. Time for a rude awakening. "The _wonderful _Gestapo took major Brummer away a few hours ago for questioning. Don't worry M&M, the major is the toughest sonofagun Ah know. He'll be alright."

Dom nodded, knowing that Dirk was lying, or at least trying to lessen the eventual blow. He looked at the thick oaken door, wondering if the major would be brought back. From what he remembered about the Gestapo, he was just deluding himself. Eventually, captain or he himself would be taken away for questioning, and then put in solitary.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the door slammed open, and two Gestapo men marched in. "You, Herr Leutnant, come with us." Their tone offered no warmth, and bore ill will for trouble makers. Without waiting for a reply they grabbed O'Neill by his arms and dragged him out of the cell. He struggled all the way down the hall, trying to break away, until the handle of a pistol solved that. His world faded to black, and he knew no more.

O0o0o

"Urgh" someone groaned, sitting up. What in the hell had hit him? He took stock, trying to remember the last fight he had been in. It wasn't the boxing tournament, he had withdrawn from that. He had passed basic and advanced self-defense with flying colors. Dom groaned again, holding his head. He had one hell of a head ache, and he was freezing. Had dad forgotten and turned the thermostat down again? He shook his head, clearing the last remaining cobwebs. Oh yeah. That's what had happened. Never mouth off to a Gestapo agent, because he'll hit you really hard.

"Ah, Herr Leutnant, you are awake." O'Neill turned, wondering who was speaking with the jackhammer voice. A check towards the door showed a young looking man in a black trench coat. Military Intelligence? Probably.

"Who're you?" he whispered, mindful of his headache. The young MI man pulled up a chair, and sat down, facing O'Neill. "Herr Leutnant, I am a friend. I came to deliver some sad news, as I am a priest. Your friend, Hauptmann Newman passed away this morning. If their is someone he would want his possessions sent to, please tell me."

_Lying bastard. You just want to know who to blackmail him with. _O'Neill shook his head, tears welling up. Maybe denial was a good thing. It'd help keep him focused. "No. I don't know. He didn't mention anyone, and his dad is stateside. I think" he added as an afterthought. "He did mention once that he wanted his personal belongings given to the squadrons memorial." _That ought to screw this guy up._

"Very well, Herr Leutnant. I will have his things sent to your base in England. Would you have an address?" _Sneaky, but not sneaky enough. You should take lessons from Maddy._

"No. S-Sorry. I-I don't, um I m-mean, n-no." Damn perpetual stutter. At least it was helping deter any further questions.

"Very well, Herr Leutnant. Sleep well." The man patted O'Neill on his shoulder, and left. As soon as he was gone, the dams broke, and O'Neill wept bitterly. Denial only went so far, he decided. Now he was almost all alone, except for his co, and he'd probably never see major Brummer again. Grief was the enemy, but now O'Neill let it settle around him like a warm comforting blanket.

O0o0o

"Herr Hauptmann?" Dirk Newman shot up, looking around wildly. His gaze settled on a young man in a black trench coat. "Herr Hauptmann?" The young man asked again. Newman narrowed his eyes at the youth, asking a million silent questions.

"Sir, I am a priest, and, I am afraid, a bearer of bad tidings. Your friend, Leutnant O'Neill, passed away this morning. He asked that his possessions be sent to the memorial for the Hell Storm squadron."

Newman frowned. The name of the squadron had never been released. Someone had told. It couldn't have been M&M, cause the kid wouldn't tell anyone anything like that if his life depended on it. Major Brummer definitely wouldn't tell. He mistrusted anyone that wasn't a member of the Hell Storm squad, or his wife and two daughters.

"I see that you don't trust me, Herr Hauptmann. That is understandable. Perhaps calling him "Mighty Midget" would convince you?" The youth instantly regretted his choice of words as Newman leapt at him, roaring "DON"T CALL MY FRIEND THAT YOU NAZI BASTARD!"

Newman attempted to strangle the black-clad youth, but several heavily armed guards swarmed into the cell, and forcibly restrained him. The youth looked at him pityingly, before nodding to the guards, and walked out of the tiny cell. Newman was hit over the head with a rifle, and his vision faded to black. The last thing he heard was "Pity he didn't tell us anything. The little Leutnant would be devastated if his friend were to be our informant." _Gotcha, you rat bastards._

O0o0o

"Herr Major?" Brummer opened one partially swollen eye, trying to see who was speaking. A cool, wet, cloth touched his face, wiping away crusted blood and dirt. "Herr Major, I am a friend. You understand what I am saying, ja?"

Major Brummer looked out at the new being occupying his cell. A blond youth wearing a black trench-coat was looking at him. "Sir, I have some bad news. You wish to sit down, yes?"

Why was this Nazi being nice? Weren't African-Americans considered animals? This little Nazi crud wanted something, Brummer was sure of it. "Sir, I regret that I must inform you of the passing of your men. Hauptmann Newman and Leutnant O'Neill, yes?"

Brummer closed his eyes, giving a silent prayer to Saint Joan of Arc, praying for the passage of his men's souls to the Heavenly Home. _In the face of your enemies, in the face of harassment, ridicule, and doubt, you held firm in your faith. Even in your abandonment, alone and without friends, you held firm in your faith. Even as you faced your own mortality, you held firm in your faith. I pray that I may be as bold in my beliefs as you, St. Joan. I ask that you ride alongside my men in their battles. Help me be mindful that what is worthwhile can be won when I persist. Help me hold firm in my faith. Help me believe in my ability to act well and wisely. Amen._

He raised his head, and looked at the youth, his eyes glistening. "Who are you?" The young man looked surprised for a moment, and recovered slightly. "My name is Gustav, Herr Major. I would like to know if your men left any contact information. For who they wished their possessions to go to, ja?"

Brummer shook his head, tears slipping out silently. The loss of men had never hit him this hard. Perhaps it was seeing the twelve young recruits, who were looking forward to a free beer, getting gunned down. Hearing of the deaths of his two subordinates was the last domino, and now he was showing grief openly. "No. Please leave, Gustav. I need to be alone" he whispered, and turned away from the young man.

"Very well, Herr Major. I will leave." The young man called the guards, and was let out, leaving Brummer alone with his emotions. He slid down the wall, and hardened his heart. _I will not yield. I am a human, but I will not give in to these monsters. Harden your heart, James. Focus on Lily, and the twins. Jessica and Sara, and a little boy that you'll probably never see. Fix them in your mind, and harden your heart. _He closed his eyes, falling into a deep, nightmare filled sleep.

_A/N: So what do you think? Tell me what you think, and if there's anything seriously wrong. _


	3. That's Classified

Dominic stirred, face distorting as broken bones grated painfully. He tried to remember the day. If it was a Sunday, the doctor would be stopping by to set bones. What a joy. Helping him get better for the next round with interrogators.

The door opened quietly, and an old man carrying a black medical bag came in. "Guten Morgen, Herr Leutnant. I trust you are well?" Dom groaned, and rolled onto his side, and looked at the doctor. "Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor. No, I'm not alright."

The doctor smiled at his young charges sense of humor. "Very funny, Leutnant. You are not fooling anyone." Dom chuckled a little at the doctors words.

"Doktor Geheimnis, I'm not trying to be funny. I just am" O'Neill quipped. Doctor Geheimnis shook his head, and opened up his bag, pulling out a roll of bandages. As he set to work on bandaging Dom's ribs, something made him pause. "You know, Leutnant, you remind me of another patient of mine. Hauptmann Dirk Newman. He is a funny man too. If you can understand anything he is saying with that drawl of his."

O'Neill shot up onto his feet, heedless of the bandages. "You know captain Newman? B-but that's im-impossible. I-I thought he-e was d-dead." Geheimnis instantly realized what was going on. "That is what Gustav told you, ja?" Blank stare. "The youth in the black coat. He informs important prisoners of the death or defection of their comrades. He is a good liar, I see."

Dominic felt a faint glimmer of hope, the first he had had in months. If Newman were alive, than major Brummer was still alive as well. "D-Doktor? C-could you take a message to c-captain Newman?"

Doctor Geheimnis raised an eyebrow expectantly. "T-tell him th-that M&M is alright. A-and he owes m-me a beer." Doctor Geheimnis raised an eyebrow, but wrote the message down. "Now, Leutnant, are you going to let me finish bandaging you ribs? Or are you content to continue jumping around like a crazed monkey?" Dominic shrugged, grinning sheepishly, and let Geheimnis finish his job.

O0o0o

Captain Newman stretched, feeling his spine crack back into place. Last nights session hadn't been as bad as the others, so something was up. Heh. Maybe the Red Cross inspector is going to show up today. The more rational part argued that the Red Cross inspector wouldn't show up for a "dead" man. Who could logically take complaints from a man who was supposed to be dead?

He stood up, testing his legs. They functioned normally, and he started stretches for a warm-up. While his cell was too tiny for a real work-out, he could do Tai Chi. He started the basic movement, willing his mind to clear. It wouldn't do to dwell on the things happening "outside". He heard the door creak open, and he stopped his movements, going stock still.

Doctor Geheimnis stepped into the cell, looking at his enormous patient. The man was covered from head to toe in bruises, welts, and blood. The Georgian just couldn't keep silent, could he?

Newman relaxed visibly. It was Sunday, apparently. "Mornin', Doc. What's up?" The man winced at Newman's accent. "Güte Morgen, Hauptmann Newman. I have a message for you." Newman raised an eyebrow. No one knew that he was here, except for major Brummer, who could very well be dead. So who would be sending him a message? Definitely not a Nazi, and he didn't have any bills. What dead man had bills?

"The message, Herr Hauptmann, is "M&M is alright. And you owe him a beer". I believe that M&M is Leutnant O'Neill?" said Geheimnis. Newman struggled visibly to restrain himself. "You ahre oversteppin your boundaries, doc. O'Neill died three months ago. Don't think you can pull something like this."

Doctor Geheimnis sighed. "The young man is about five feet, four inches. He has hair the color of ink, and jade green eyes. His name is Leutnant Dominic O'Neill." He gauged Newman's reaction, and was completely unprepared for what happened.

Dirk Newman had only cried twice before in his life. The first was when his adoptive mother died, the second had been three months ago. Now he wept tears of relief. His little brother was alive. He looked at the doctor, and said "Thanks Doc. Ah appreciate it. Maybe you'll pull another miracle outa yer bag, and say that major Brummer is alive."

He paused, peering at the elderly German, who was smiling slightly. "You are joking!" Newman jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, and gave a joyful yell. "YES YES YES!" He pumped his fist in the air triumphantly, not caring if he was making a scene.

Once Newman had calmed down considerably, he thought things through. Both of his teammates were alive. The only problem was to re-establish communications. Geheimnis was thinking along the same lines, and spoke up. "Herr Hauptmann, I could deliver messages every Sunday. It would be dangerous for everyone, but it would restore something that I rarely see here. Hope." Newman was smiling so hard he thought his face would break. The doctor nodded, and took out a pad and a pencil. "Now, young man. If you will compose a message for Herr major Brummer, I will deliver it for you."

O0o0o

James Brummer stared at the wall, giving every appearance of a stone wall himself. His meditation had helped keep him alive, but to what end? The Nazis wanted the secret to his technology, and he couldn't give it to them. It wasn't that he didn't know, but the fact that it was nearly impossible to replicate.

The fuel alone. He shuddered, remembering **_that_** particular incident. The scientists had a field day, and HQ had had a collective heart-attack the size of a sidewinder missile. Of course, who could blame them? The bill for the things needed to make high grade rocket and jet fuel alone was enormous. But they hadn't complained. Much. Anything for their prize pilots and their incredible air ships.

The door creaked open, hesitantly. He smirked. No one would enter his cell willingly, without twelve armed guards behind them. No one except the doctor. He looked up, and saw that it was the doctor. Sunday. Wonderful, a day of rest he thought sarcastically.

"Herr Major? I have a message for you." Brummer looked up, a deep frown appearing on his face. He would be surprised if he could remember HOW to smile.

"It is from a gut freund of yours. It reads" the doctor paused, pulling a pad out of his pocket. "Oh dear. The boys' hand writing is illegible. Perhaps you can read this, Herr Major." He handed the paper to Brummer, who took it gingerly.

Brummer laughed for what seemed like the first time in eternity that he had done so. It wasn't illegible handwriting, it was the Hell Storms code. It had been devised after a rash of very unfortunate and deadly missions. No one but a Hell Stormer would be able to understand it, or write it.

The message read "Maj. B- kid and I are alive. Trust doc. He is friend. Tank." Brummer grinned, and folded the paper up. "Thanks Doc. I got the message. Say hi to the kids for me next week." Doktor Geheimnis nodded, and pulled out some bandages from his black bag. "Now hold still. I need to do the job I am paid to do."

After Doktor Geheimnis left, Brummer sat down, leaning against the wall. He pulled the message out, and looked it over. For the first time since he had arrived in this hell, he felt a glimmer of something. He couldn't describe it, but it felt as though he had just eaten one of Lily's home cooked meals. That was something he had been wanting ever since he had landed in this crazy, mixed-up time. He wondered suddenly what had become of his family. Were they alright? Did the girls remember him? Was his wife finally accepting the fact that he might be dead?

He could answer a few of his questions already. His family was alright. The first Hell Storm squadron had set up a policy of caring for the families and dependants of their pilots and crew. The girls were going to be turning twelve soon, so they might remember him. Lily, he gave a shuddering breath. Lily was good at getting information. Better than the Gestapo, so she would already know about the experiment. God, how would he explain himself? Maybe she did think he was dead, and was now praying to one of her saints for his soul.

O0o0o

Dominic looked at the interrogator, focusing on his training. It would never do to give the enemy information. He withdrew deeper within himself, and went onto what he had dubbed "auto-pilot". He would never break. "Herr Leutnant, please. I don't like to hurt you, but we need the information you have about your Raptors." That was just begging to be made fun of. He sighed grandly, and the man looked at him expectantly.

"Well, sir, there are some things I can tell you. The first is my name, which you already know. The second is my rank, which you know, and my serial number, which you can recite from memory, forwards and backwards. But in case I have to say them again, here goes. O'Neill, Dominic R. USAF, serial number 0868962. And I don't know that much about our tech. I suggest a science-fiction magazine."

The interrogator snarled at O'Neill, hitting him with the blackjack. This continued for several minutes, until someone came in, and whispered something in the mans ear. "Well, little Leutnant, it looks like our session will be cut short today." He smiled at the young man curled up on the floor, and left.

O'Neill didn't give a damn what happened, as long as Fritz would lay off him. He curled up tighter as the door opened, hoping that Fritz wasn't returning. He was lifted up and placed on a stretcher, which brought him a small amount of relief. He had withdrawn further into himself a few days ago, and he hadn't spoken much. He hadn't spoken since the last message, which had been covered in blood. He was afraid that something had happened to his "family" as it were. Maybe he was the only one left.

O0o0o

Brummer looked at the stretcher that was being loaded into the truck, and felt as though something evil had happened. Had he been to late? Had the doctor not been able to convince the man in charge of their files to fudge them soon enough? Was one of his men truly dead?

A rifle shoved him in the small of his back, and he moved forward, towards the truck. He climbed in and was greeted by the sight of the two men already in there. He feigned surprise and shock, grabbing Newman in a bear hug. "Than God you're alive. I thought you were dead, captain."

Newman grinned sheepishly at his C.O., who had sat down on the bench across from him. "Whatever happened to command distance sir?" he quipped, vice crackly and hoarse. Brummer just smiled in his own quiet way, and looked at the floor of the truck. His heart stopped, and his breath caught in his throat. Lieutenant O'Neill was on the stretcher, and looked like he was barely clinging on to the mortal plane. He growled internally, cursing himself. He hadn't been fast enough.

Dominic was vaguely aware of someone saying his name, but he didn't respond. Maybe they'd just go away and let him sleep if he didn't respond. The voices stopped, and he sighed, going deeper into the realms of sleep. He dreamed of happier times, when he was a child, with his mom and dad. A small smile appeared on his lips.

Brummer and Newman looked at their young friend, wondering what he was dreaming about. They both secretly envied him, and at the same time pitied him. They both settled back on their benches, after making sure that O'Neill was comfortable.

o0o0o

Colonel Hogan looked up as the truck rumbled into the camp, followed by a Gestapo car. He frowned, wondering what was going on. There hadn't been any air raids lately, and no one had been reported missing by London or the Underground. Time to go investigate.

Hogan stood up, and walked towards the Kommandants office and the vehicles, intent on finding out what was going on. Two men were dragged roughly out of the truck, and a third was brought out on a stretcher. The man on the stretcher looked as though he had been put through a wringer, and the two capable of standing on their own looked no better. They were definitely familiar somehow.

Major Brummer looked around the compound he and the remainder of his men were now stationed in. The office worker had done his job well, it would seem. The guards looked fairly competent, but not overly alert. If the rumors were true, the Kommandant would be easy to run rings around. That would make escape just a bit easier, just not that easy. That was if the No Escape record was true, and no one ever got out alive. Morbid thoughts aside, this would be a good place to recuperate.

Captain Newman looked around, trying to make it look as though he was just stretching, thinking along the same lines as Brummer. He noticed several gaps in the security, which made him smirk inside. Getting out of here would be relatively easy. Now, getting back to London was another can of worms. How to cross the English Channel, without getting shot, blown out of the water, or drowned in the process. Cheery thoughts about dying notwithstanding, this was definitely a safe haven. For the moment.

The three new men were escorted into Klink's office, shadowed by colonel Hogan. Newman and Brummer were supporting a semi-conscious O'Neill, who was leaving a trail of blood. The three, originally some of the fiercest and bravest pilots in the European theater had been replaced by shadows of their former selves. Or so it would seem.

Klink looked up from his paperwork as Gestapo and three heavily abused men walked into his office, shadowed by one he would prefer to have stayed outside. The lead Nazi stepped up, handing him a thick sheaf of papers. "Colonel Klink. These men-" he indicated the trio "- are to be kept here for an indeterminate amount of time. They are to be closely watched, and must be guarded at all times after they are healed. They are in the same league as that verdammt Papa Bear. I trust you can do that." The Gestapo man could barely keep the contempt out of his voice, or the sneer off his face.

Klink nodded, looking slightly miserable. "Of course, major. I'll put Shultz on it. Heil Hitler." He gave the customary salute, and watched the goon squad walk out, leaving an enormous stack of manila folders behind. He returned his gaze to the three, no four, men in his office. "Hogan, get out. I have to process the new men." One of them snorted, but it might have been a cough.

"But kommandant, according to the Geneva Convention, a senior officer must be present for all questioning" Hogan said, parroting the line that he had used so many times before that he could say it in his sleep. Klink looked at him, looking slightly murderous.

"Hogan, I'm not going to question them until tomorrow. Now get out!" Klink's voice rose several octaves, and Hogan got the hint, saluting sloppily. He turned to the three, and told them "Name, rank, and serial number only." An exasperated "HOGAN!" from Klink, and he was gone.

Newman eyed the new kommandant, wondering just what the hell was going on. That American flyer, Hogan, was much to flippant. That man, very similar to the one he had met in London, didn't meet the criteria for a prisoner. If there was a criteria, but then again, no one ever told him these types of things. Was he not on the mailing list or something?

"Kommandant, I'm major Brummer, USAF. I request, under the terms of the Geneva Convention, that you allow my men and I at least a half day to recover." He stared at the man, hoping that he could appeal to the German officers sense of honor, or use the Geneva Convention. Some Stalag kommandants didn't give a rats ass about the Geneva Convention from what he had heard.

"Major, I will give you the requested half day. But somehow I find it hard to believe that an Negro could make it past enlisted." Klink looked at the large Negro man standing before him, and noticed just how annoyed the major looked now.

James Brummer gritted his teeth, and counted to ten, slowly. In Swahili, and then in Urdu. Twice. He opened his eyes, and let out a breath, trying very, very hard not to give in to the impulse to punch somebody. "Kommandant, I have worked very hard to get to my position. I acknowledge that the Nazis do not like African-Americans, but I do have a sense of pride in myself, and my race. I realize that in this day and age it is nearly impossible to attain a higher rank than sergeant, but I worked hard, and did the time. Sir." He paused, bracing himself for a blow that never came. He opened his eyes, looking at his new warden.

Klink knew exactly one man who would talk like this to him. Hogan. The last thing he had expected from men who had been detained by the Gestapo for almost five months wasn't this. "Major, in my camp, as well as in the Geneva Convention, there are certain rules on must follow. The one that I believe pertains to you is respect for a superior officer. If not I'll either have you thrown in the cooler, or transferred."

O'Neill heard the last comment from the kommandant through the fog of pain, and snickered. He knew it probably wasn't a good idea, but he was probably going to be excused for it. After all, he was half-dead, and he could have just been coughing. Right? Right, that was it. As if to back up his previous thought, he did cough and a large amount of blood came up. He heard several rude comments, probably from the large guy supporting him, and a sharp order in German. _Medical? Huh? It's not Sunday. Is it? Oh, it must be. I should be getting a note from the major or Dirk today. That is if they haven't died. Again._

Captain Newman saw the young pilot next to him start to collapse, and caught him as he started to fall. He picked the slight man up, frowning at how light O'Neill was. That would have to be remedied before they left. He looked at the portly guard that had come into the kommandants office, silently asking for directions to the infirmary, or nearest doctor.

Shultz took one look at the three men in Klink's office, and immediately led them out, leading them to the infirmary. The two that were capable of standing looked like death brought to life, and the boy that the large captain was carrying didn't look as though he belonged among the living.

O0o0o

Captain Newman looked around his new quarters, wondering if this was the best place to be in. The solitary cells at least had windows, and he could see his teammates now. The guard that had taken them to the infirmary had been very polite. He wondered how a man like that could ever join the German military. Newman snorted, and looked across the hall to his friend O'Neill, who was in a drug-induced stupor. He shouldn't judge Shultz, knowing the twenty year old lieutenant. Newman wondered how someone so young could be allowed into the military, but O'Neill was a certified genius, after all.

James Brummer stretched his shoulder, marveling at being able to feel it again. In one of his more recent sessions it had become dislocated, and the doctor hadn't been able to reset it. Now, with the help of the camp's Allied medic, one Joe Wilson, he could move it without feeling too much pain. He wouldn't be doing Tae-Kwon-Doe or boxing any time soon, but it was an improvement.

A movement at the entrance to the solitary confinement block interrupted Brummer's reverie, and he looked at the door, wondering who it could be. A man in a brown bomber jacket came in, accompanied by sergeant Shultz. The man stepped up to his cell, introducing himself. "Evening. I'm colonel Robert Hogan, the SAO here. I came to inform you of your rights as a POW." Major Brummer nodded, showing that he understood. "Thank you sir. However, my men and I are aware of the terms of the Geneva Convention. We know how we are to conduct ourselves, and how we can expect to be treated." He saluted, remembering that he should have when the colonel had come up. Hogan returned the salute, nodding thoughtfully.

"What unit were you with, major?" Hogan asked, gazing evenly at the African-American major. The man regarded him suspiciously, seeming to evaluate him as well. "Sir, unless you have a classification level of Alpha Beta nine-one-nine, I can't tell you."

Hogan whistled appreciatively. "I'm afraid not major. You must be fairly important to merit a classification level like that." Inwardly, he was seething. London had a lot to answer for. Like how they had managed to "forget" to report the fact that the Fearless Three had been shot down.

"Very well, I'll leave you to your rest" Hogan replied, and left, returning the parade ground salute that major Brummer had given him. He had some very important things to talk about with London. Very important things.


	4. These Aren't Your Men

Lieutenant Dominic O'Neill stretched, reveling in the spring air. He had been questioning a sergeant Carter about a tunnel he had seen the older man closing, but with no luck. He wondered briefly why no one had ever escaped from Stalag 13. The security was laughable. Most of the guards carried unloaded weapons, the forest was ridiculously close, and the security, well that was just funny. The fence had a shoddy patrol, and the dogs were friendly. How no one had ever managed to escape was beyond him. Maybe they were all incredibly stupid. Or just generally incompetent.

A large shadow loomed over him, interrupting his thoughts. He turned around, coming face-to-face with captain Newman. His heart did a back flip, and he shook his head. "Captain? You're ALIVE!" He grabbed the taller man in a hug. After a few awkward seconds, he let go, face turning red. "Umm, I mean, it's great to see you sir."

"S'okay, squirt. However, we've got a slight problem. It requires ya ta be in lawyer mode" Newman drawled, hooking his arm around the lieutenants shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go, afore major Brummer kill that sorry sot." He grimaced, shuddering.

o0o0o

"I DO NOT CARE IF YOU DO NOT LIKE MY RACE!" Major Brummer bellowed at the young RAF corporal. "I AM AN OFFICER! YOU WILL RESPECT THE UNIFORM! AM I CLEAR SOLDIER?!" Brummer had an excellent tirade going by the time Newman and O'Neill got to where the argument was happening. It was, however, a rather one-sided argument, as the corporal Brummer was bellowing at was a quivering mess.

"I SAID AM I CLEAR, CORPORAL?!" Major Brummer was obviously not in his happy spot. The corporal nodded, but it obviously wasn't the response that Brummer had been looking for.

"CORPORAL, WHEN I ASK YOU A QUESTION, YOU ANSWER! I DON'T CARE IF YOU THINK I'M AN UPPITY ASS-KISSING NIGGER, YOU WILL SHOW ME THE RESPECT DUE AN OFFICER! AND THAT MEANS RESPONDING WHEN I ASK YOU A QUESTION!"

Lieutenant O'Neill stepped up to major Brummer, hoping to stall the further chewing out. "Sir, what would Mrs. Brummer think of your behavior?" He knew it was a bad idea to mention Lily Brummer, but it was his only trump card available.

"Do not bring Lily into this, lieutenant, or I'll bust you down a few ranks. This rat-" Brummer grabbed the unfortunate corporal by the scruff of his neck, "-needs to be taught respect. And a respect of officers. Lily will understand. In fact, she'd expect it."

Newman looked at his CO nervously, and decided that he should run interference instead. "Sir, rule number one. I'd suggest that. It won't be as rewarding here, but it will work. Kicking recruits for six miles has always worked wonders for you in the past. And I really don't think it'd be prudent for you to kill this kid."

Newman knew from personal experience that it would. On the first day of training for the Hell Storm Squad, one of the recruits had managed to piss off major Brummer. The result hadn't been pretty. The recruit had been forced to run six miles in full uniform with a full pack. Major Brummer had been behind said unfortunate recruit, kicking him in the ass if he stopped or tried to slow down.

The man hadn't been able to sit down for almost a month afterwards. It had made it to the number one spot on a Hell Storm veterans video "What NOT to do on your first day."

Newman had never managed to live it down. It was also guaranteed that every new recruit would see that delightful video on the first day. In full color, with surround sound. It was a very, very humiliating experience.

Brummer smirked, his face lighting up in a rather demonic looking mask. He turned to face the RAF corporal, who had been trying to edge away. "Corporal Whitman, start running." The youth did exactly that, and Brummer took off after him, looking much happier. The boy was in for a rough hour or so.

Captain Newman turned to O'Neill, who had a look of studied bliss on his face. "Brings back great memories, eh Mighty Midget?" O'Neill could only nod, his face a picture of bliss.

"I've got to remember this moment, captain. I'm going to remember it forever. This will definitely be one for the books." O'Neill was smiling to, thinking about what he would do with this, if and when they ever got back to their proper time.

Newman chuckled quietly, looking at the retreating form of major Brummer and the unfortunate corporal Whitman. He turned around, and came face to face with an extremely angry looking colonel Hogan. "Uh-oh" he muttered quietly, thinking back to his first day in the Hell Storm Squad. The feeling of impending doom was almost the same as it had been then.

"Captain." Colonel Hogan's voice was dangerously calm. "Why is major Brummer kicking one of my men?" Captain Newman grinned nervously, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably.

"Ummm. I'm not really sure how to explain that sir. You see-" Newman froze, seeing the look on Hogan's face. For the first time since orientation day, captain Dirk Newman was scared of a superior officer. Newman felt a trickle of ice run down his spine, and laughed nervously. Colonel Hogan had what looked like an I'm-going-to-kill-you-if-you-don't-answer look on his face. "You see sir, corporal Whitman insulted major Brummer. Major Brummer has a hair trigger temper with things like that, and he was already in a bad mood to begin with. So getting called a Ni- a Nig-" He choked on the word, unable to say it.

"Spit it out, captain" colonel Hogan growled, getting impatient with the large captain. "What did corporal Whitman say to major Brummer?" The Georgian captain grinned nervously, a blush rising in his cheeks.

"CorporalWhitmancalledmajorBrummeranigger" Newman said quickly, talking very fast. Colonel Hogan raised an eyebrow, clearly asking Newman to repeat himself. Slowly, this time. "Corporal Whitman called major Brummer a nigger." He bit his lip, cheeks now a brilliant shade of radioactive red.

Colonel Hogan raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "That's all?" His tone was disbelieving, tinged with a hint of amusement. Captain Newman nodded. Hogan sighed, shaking his head. The newcomers really were strange. Very, very strange.

Captain Newman turned a darker shade of red, and walked away, muttering curses under his breath. Lieutenant O'Neill offered a shrug and a salute to colonel Hogan, before running after his large friend.

o0o0o

Major Brummer turned around, looking at the corporal, who was getting rather red faced. "Halt!" he bellowed, watching the boy jump. He chuckled, and pulled corporal Whitman back to his feet. "Anything you wanted to say, corporal?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild.

Corporal Whitman shook his head, chest heaving as he sucked in great gouts of air. 'No, sir" he finally managed to gasp. "I have one question. Sir" he added as an after thought. Major Brummer made a go-ahead gesture. "Do you treat all of your subordinates like this?"

Major Brummer threw back his head, laughing loudly. It became a deep, booming bellowing laugh. When he could finally stop, he looked back at a rather confused corporal. "Funny you should ask." He smiled, showing all of his teeth. "Ask captain Newman about that. If he doesn't kick you, or try to strangle you, he'll probably tell you. He actually was the first person on the receiving end of that particular punishment."

Major Brummer was about to continue, when someone grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. He instantly dropped into a defensive posture, but straightened, saluting. "Colonel."

Colonel Hogan glared icily at the black major, and then over at corporal Whitman. "You are dismissed corporal" he said, his tone icy. The corporal hurried away, clearly not wanting to be near Hogan, when Hogan was like this. Major Brummer was bad enough.

Colonel Hogan turned his gaze back to major Brummer, who looked back at him with a measured gaze. "Major Brummer, these are my men." Brummer nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "I am the one that will be settling any and all disagreements between you, your men, and my men from now on. Am I clear?" Brummer just nodded, radiating an infuriating aura of calm. "If you do not follow my orders, as I have laid them out, I will have you transferred, or court-martialed."

Major Brummer tried valiantly to keep from smirking. "I understand perfectly sir. I also understand that, as an officer, you also tolerate no disrespect. Corporal Whitman showed an extreme lack of respect, so I meted out punishment. Admittedly not the punishment that you would have used, but it has proved most effective in the past. Sir." He looked at Hogan, gauging the other mans reaction. Colonel Hogan continued to glare icily at major Brummer.

"I gather that you ran an unusual outfit. However, this isn't your squadron, these aren't your men, and you are not the ranking officer." Hogan delivered his response in an equally measured voice, albeit without the calm that major Brummer was exhibiting.

"I realize that sir. We'll leave when we're able, with your permission. I wouldn't want to ruin your reputation." With that, major Brummer saluted, did a perfect about-face, and walked away, leaving an extremely irate and baffled Hogan behind.

o0o0o

Major James Brummer wasn't a religious man, but occasionally, even he needed advice. After getting directions from a rather nervous looking sergeant, he made his way to the camps chapel. Making his way to the front, he knelt down, and bowed his head. After a few moments, he looked up. "God, it's me again. I need advice, or a sign, or something." He paused, closing his eyes. "I need to know what to do, if the Gestapo come back. I haven't been the most devout follower of yours, heck, I'm not even one of yours. But even I need Your advice sometimes. I'm- well, I'm afraid." Brummer chuckled, shaking his head. "I just need to know what to do. Buddha knows what I'll do if I lose one of my men."

Major Brummer sighed again, bowing his head. He stood up, and bowed towards the cross, and walked out of the chapel, feeling somewhat less confused. He found his men, and leaned against the barracks wall, arms crossed. The two appeared to be arguing about something, as they were wont to do.

Captain Newman gestured sharply around the camp, looking furious. Lieutenant O'Neill said something, which made Newman look even angrier. The large Georgian stood up, and gestured for his slight companion to do the same. Brummer saw the danger signs, and walked over.

Captain Newman dropped into a defensive crouch, and O'Neill copied him. Other prisoners who had been watching now looked on in growing interest as the two friends, now opponents, kicked off their shoes, and removed their jackets.

"Coward" Newman spat at O'Neill, hoping to goad the younger man into attacking first. He was looking for any advantage, and began circling the shorter man. "Can't fight, won't fight. Won't run, can't escape. Coward."

Lieutenant O'Neill merely glared at his superior, not rising to the barbs. "I merely meant that we should wait awhile. I am not a coward, merely smarter." Newman roared and leapt at the lieutenant, taking the offensive at what he considered an insult.

Lieutenant O'Neill bent sharply backwards at the waist, drawing appreciative whistles from the audience. He snapped back up, and spun around, moving strangely. To many, it appeared as if he were drunk. He moved again in his weaving style, before aiming a high kick at Newman.

Newman dodged the weaving attack, and responded with one of his own. The wrist lock would have been impressive, had O'Neill not been able to break free, still looking staggering drunk. O'Neill used his momentum, as well as his opponents, and threw the giant over his shoulder. This drew even more appreciative shouts, as the audience had clearly thought that the little lieutenant couldn't manage a throw like that.

Suddenly, all the cheers stopped, and everyone went deathly still. The two combatants paused, with O'Neill trapped in a headlock. Kommandant Klink, sergeant Shultz, and colonel Hogan were glaring at the two of them.

Captain Newman quickly released lieutenant O'Neill, and snapped to attention. His face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt. Lieutenant O'Neill fared no better.

"What is the meaning of this?" Hogan growled, interrupting whatever it had been that kommandant Klink had been about to say. "You should know better than to try and kill each other. Is fighting the Nazis not good enough for you now?"

Kommandant Klink bristled at that. "Colonel Hogan, it is I who run this camp. NOT you. I will be the one to ask questions." He turned his less than friendly gaze to the two Allied pilots, watching them shrink back. "As colonel Hogan asked, why are you fighting? You are in a POW camp. You have no more reason to fight, and no one that you should be fighting."

Captain Newman glared defiantly at the German colonel, several rude phrases springing to his lips, but dieing there. "Kommandant, I have no explanation for my behaviour. My temper has been a little high lately, and I just snapped. My apologies for any trouble I may have caused." He gave a sharp bow, drawing several confused looks from the assembled men.

Lieutenant O'Neill looked at his feet, digging his toes into the dirt, before bowing as well. "I have apologies to make as well, Kommandant. I didn't mean to start a fight." He looked up, a light blush creeping across his cheeks. "I haven't been in the best of moods, and I had too much pent up rage. I needed an outlet, and unfortunately, I chose to use my best friend to vent my rage."

Colonel Klink's gaze softened somewhat, but his frosty gaze remained on the two. "Very well. But you did, however, start what could have turned into an all-out brawl. I try to run a peaceful prison camp, and I will try to make sure that each and everyone of you get through this alive. I will not tolerate any shenanigans of this kind. Two weeks in solitary, on half rations for both of you."

The two men nodded, suitably chastised. As they were escorted to the cooler, major Brummer stepped up to them, and whacked both of them. He whispered something to both of them. Both men turned equally pale, and their pace sped up a fraction.

_A/N: Okay, another chapter done. And it's finished with a cliffy. Yay me. On another note- The bowing thing. I read somewhere that martial artists bow after a competition, or when asking forgiveness. My big brother has also verified this. Now, click that button and leave a review. Constructive criticism a must, as always._


	5. What are Our Options?

_So, chapter five. IT"S THE APOCALYPSE! Err, I mean, it's an update! I finally finished chapter five! By the way, thanks to all of you who reviewed._

o0o0o

Colonel Robert Hogan, USAAC, looked across the barracks to the newest occupants. The tallest, captain Newman, seemed to be a good-natured man. Even if he was about as subtle as a Tiger tank when talking. The young man sitting next to him was also unusual. Standing at five feet, four inches, barely taller than LeBeau, he was as sharp as a tack, and very subtle.

The most perplexing of the three was perhaps their commanding officer, Major James Brummer. The most confusing aspect of this man was that he was colored, and an officer, a major! That was unthinkable, impossible even. Hogan had called London on the radio, and had verified most of the details of the three, which brought him to his current headache. How the hell was he going to tell these three strange men anything about his operation? For all he knew, they could be spies for the Nazis; of course, he couldn't stick by that theory, seeing as he had met the three of them almost six months prior to this.

Captain Newman could feel the eyes of every "down-timer" in the barracks on him. He couldn't place it, but most of them seemed hostile, and only a very small number felt non-threatening. He shrugged uncomfortably, and returned his attention back to his comrades.

"- all I'm saying is that we don't have access to any maps, and even if we did, there's no way we could get you out safely, major." O'Neill looked helplessly at his co, hoping that the older man understood. Major Brummer nodded, and motioned for him to continue. "Anyways, moving on. How are we going to get out? There have never been any escapes from here." O'Neill looked over his shoulder, and lowered his voice before continuing "-either the guards are more competent than they look, or one or more of our fellow prisoners is a rat fink."

Major Brummer sighed; eyes closed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Therein lies the bulk of our problems, I guess. What are our options gentlemen?" Brummer opened his eyes, looking at the other two with his piercing brown gaze.

"Either we trust what may pass for this camps escape committee, and use that. Our other option is to keep all plans a secret, or in code, and trust no one but our team" Newman said, drawing a rather surprised look from Brummer. "What? Just because my nickname is "Tank" doesn't mean I can't be subtle once in awhile too."

Lieutenant O'Neill laughed aloud at this, rocking back so far that he fell off of his bunk. The crash drew the attention of their "down-timer" counterparts. O'Neill popped right back to his feet, grinning. "I'm okay." He sat back down, still smiling, and looked at everyone. "Like I said, I'm okay. Cut, print, check the gate, moving on."

Colonel Hogan sighed, rubbing his forehead, feeling his headache increase another few notches. The newcomers were definitely going to break him faster than the Gestapo ever would, or could for that matter. He turned to his second, sergeant Kinchloe. "Well, Kinch? What are our options?"

The African-American non-com shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know sir. Our orders are to get them safely back to England, as fast and soon as possible. I guess we just tell them."

Colonel Hogan grimaced, looking at the three, who were once again talking in low voices, in what sounded like a hodge-podge of languages. He stood up, an air of martyrdom settling over him like a funeral pallor.

Major Brummer looked up as a shadow fell over him. Colonel Hogan had come up behind him, and was apparently trying to listen in on his teams' conversation. He stood up, saluting. "Sir?"

Colonel Hogan waved him off, and gestured for the major to sit again. "Gentlemen, there is something I have to discuss with you." The three strange officers looked at him, identical looks on their faces.

"What would that be, sah?" Captain Newman started, raising his eyebrows. Apart from discussing how much trouble they were going to be in for the latest cooler session, there wasn't much they could discuss. Unless Colonel Hogan was the Nazi plant…

"I have standing orders to get the three of you out of here, and safely back to London." Colonel Hogan saw no reason to beat around the bush. The sooner these three were out of his hair, his camp, and Germany; the sooner things could go back to normal.

Lieutenant O'Neill raised his eyebrows, feeling them disappear into his hairline. Who the hell could get orders in a prison camp? It was another strange thing about this camp. People would disappear left, right, and center; things would vanish or blow up, and there were more attempted escapes here than in any other camp. He swore that the attempted escapes were choreographed by someone.

Colonel Hogan had apparently seen his reaction, because he asked a strange question. "How would you three like to see Stalag thirteen's basement expansion project?" He had a semi-psychotic grin in place.

Captain Newman answered for his teammates. "How de hell are ya hiding a basement here? There ain't enough room ta dump de dirt. Ya'll must be pullin' our legs. No disrespect, sah."

"Kinch, if you could watch the door?" Colonel Hogan smirked, pleased at having finally gained the upper hand on the strangers. Revenge was sweet, as they say. He walked over to a bunk on the far side of the barracks, and hit it twice.

The bunk moved in two directions. The upper half moved up, hitting the top bunk, and the other half became a ladder, leading to a tunnel.

"Whoa."

Major Brummer nodded, agreeing with the sentiments of his youngest teammate. "Whoa" was definitely the right expression. Even the Stalag Luft III hadn't had an expansion project like this. Of course, he needed to see it first to believe it. "May I?" he asked, motioning to the tunnel entrance. Colonel Hogan nodded, and major Brummer descended the ladder.

Captain Newman and Lieutenant O'Neill followed their superior officer, descending into the Stalag Thirteen expansion project. Captain Newman was the last down the ladder, and he promptly whacked his head off of a support beam.

"Ow." Newman rubbed the sore spot on his forehead, before looking around. His eyes bugged, seeing how large the project actually was. This was _insane_! No, this was virtually _impossible_.

Colonel Hogan's smirk deepened, watching his newest headaches go nuts over his operation. He finally turned his attention to what they were saying, and his own eyes widened in shock.

"Remember that bunker that was on base?" O'Neill said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. The other two nodded. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that they were built and designed by the same people. Funny…" he muttered trailing off.

Major Brummer nodded sagely. "I shall take a look at the base records when we get back to our time. Chances are they were, as you said, lieutenant."

Colonel Hogan looked between the major and lieutenant, frowning in obvious confusion. As far as he knew, there weren't any bunkers on the base that these three were stationed at, besides the air raid trenches. The air raid trenches couldn't even be called bunkers.

He shrugged mentally, and chalked it up to another thing that was the mystery of the Fearless Three.

Turning back to the three, who were now clustered around a map that was on the wall, Colonel Hogan cleared his throat. He was rewarded with seeing them jump. "Gentlemen, we need to start planning your escape route. Follow me" and he turned away, gesturing for them to follow.

o0o0o

Major James Brummer hated Sundays. All of his fellow prisoners were heading for the camp chapel, and he was studiously ignoring them. If they wanted to go to church, so be it. He _wasn't_.

"Major Brummer." He looked up, opening one eye. Colonel Hogan was standing at the side of his bunk, staring at him. Brummer stood up, and saluted, smirking as a brief look of annoyance flitted across the colonel's features.

"Yes, sir?" He asked; face a look of pure innocence. He knew what Colonel Hogan's problem was, or what he thought the problem was.

"It's Sunday." Brummer nodded, showing that he understood his superiors' statement. "On Sundays, prisoners are required to attend church."

Major Brummer raised an eyebrow, and mentally went through the steps his anger management counselor had suggested. _Take a deep breath. Count to ten. Remember why you are angry. Get rid of the impulses to hit someone. Repeat as often as necessary._

"Sir, as far as I was aware, I wasn't required to attend church. Buddha forbid that I go anywhere but a Buddhist temple for religious worship" Brummer said, looking evenly at Colonel Hogan, who was looking annoyed.

"Buddha? What the hell is Buddha?" was the first thing out of Hogan's mouth, as he stared at his perplexing junior officer. Before Brummer could answer, Captain Newman came back into the barracks at full speed, looking panicked.

"It's de bulls!" Newman said, voice getting louder, looking nervously around the barracks. It reminded Brummer of a cornered dog he had seen once. "Dey is here again. Ah don't know what for. Captain Newman was looking out the window again, eyes still looking wild.

"Damnit" was the only thing that major Brummer could say, or think, coherently. "This isn't good." He walked over to the window, and looked out as well. He frowned, concentrating on the Gestapo officer.

"Okay, this is slightly better. It's not our Gestapo, thank Buddha for that." Brummer leaned against the window sill, feeling the tension drain out of his body. "Our crisis for the day has been averted for the moment."

Newman nodded, still looking warily across the compound towards the kommandants office. Something wasn't right here, he could feel it. It was as if the winds were changing, and not for the better. What was the Gestapo up to?

_Klink's Office…_

"What? Are you sure?" Klink stared flabbergasted at the Gestapo officer across from him. It was impossible. It couldn't be possible. It just couldn't be true. Could it? This was an even wilder theory than major Hochstetter's accusations that Colonel Hogan was actively working with the resistance.

The Gestapo major standing across from him smirked. "Of course it's possible. The Gestapo is always sure of everything. It would be in your best interest to comply with these orders. As quickly as possible" he said, voice tinged with contempt, and a little bit of malice.

Colonel Klink swallowed nervously, and took the papers from the major, hands shaking slightly. This wasn't good. He looked around nervously, wishing Hogan would pop in unannounced, and save him from this nightmare. Colonel Hogan had an uncanny ability to pop in at the wrong, or right, times, to avert a potential disaster with a well timed comment.

No such luck, it would seem, when the door didn't open, admitting an annoying American colonel.

o0o0o

Colonel Hogan turned off the coffeepot tap, and turned around to face the three American pilots standing in his office. Things had definitely taken a turn for the stranger. This business with the Gestapo was putting a serious crimp in his plans for getting these three out of Germany.

"Well, that went well. We're screwed, aren't we?" The comment wasn't directed at Hogan, but he paid attention anyways. Eavesdropping counted as spying, which was his specialty.

"Yup. Without a doubt" Major Brummer said, eyes closing. "This isn't good. First, we get stuck in England, than we get stuck in a Gestapo prison. Now we're most likely headed back to a Gestapo prison."

Captain Newman looked at his hands, before slamming a fist into the wall. It left a sizeable dent in the flimsy wood. "Dis was never supposed to happen. It was just supposed ta be a simple test flight, and now we're stuck here. Wit no way out." He balled up his other hand, as though he was preparing to strike something. "Dis was never supposed to happen" he muttered under his breath, looking sullen, and just a bit lost.

"Course not. None of this was supposed to happen. I was supposed to meet Lily for our anniversary" Major Brummer said, placing a comforting hand on his juniors' shoulder. He squeezed the mans shoulder lightly, before removing his hand.

"Ya'll are right, Ah guess. Dis ain't helping us any. We need ta figure out a plan or sometin." Captain Newmans' accent grew a little thicker, which made colonel Hogan strain to understand him. "Ah suppose we could just hide in de tunnels, or until de Gestapo is gone." He looked at Hogan, eyes focusing directly on the other mans. "Sah, would dat work for ya'lls operation?"

Colonel Hogan nodded absentmindedly, looking out his quarters window. The sun was making the barbed wire sparkle, making him wonder what the end of the war would bring for him and his men.

The door to his quarters creaked open, and then shut, leaving him alone in the room, staring past the barbed wire.

o0o0o

Captain Newman looked up, wondering what was going on in the world above. He and his teammates had probably put colonel Hogan and his operation at risk by hiding in the tunnels, but they couldn't afford to be taken back to the Gestapo. Major Brummer had to get back to Lily, Dominic had Madeline to return to. Where did that leave him? He had lots of family, and he hadn't had contact with any of them since he joined the Air Force. He wondered how his mother was doing, and if his father was still building race cars.

He sighed, and leaned against a support beam, mindful that he shouldn't put to much stress on it. Just because he didn't want to get buried alive under a ton of dirt. It wasn't a pleasant way to go, or so he had heard.

Lieutenant Dominic O'Neill hated enclosed spaces. The tunnels weren't so bad, when the tunnel entrance was open. Now that the entrance was closed, however, he was getting extremely jumpy. If he didn't get some fresh air soon, he was going to go completely nuts.

The tunnels felt like they were closing in around him the more time he spent in them, reminding him painfully of his last memories of his mother. He was five, and had been heading to a toy store with his mother, for a birthday present for his dad. Some jerk had decided he was going to be the next Bobby Labonte, and had come roaring down the freeway, resulting in a rather spectacular pileup. His mother had died a few weeks later from injuries sustained in the crash.

Major James Brummer folded his hands, and bowed his head. His thoughts had once again turned towards home and his wife. He wondered how Lily was doing, and if she thought he was truly never coming back. He smiled slightly, picturing her reaction. She'd kick him in the rear, and tell him to stop acting so morbid.

Lily Robin Brummer was one tough girl, and she wouldn't stand for self pity. She'd make sure that you understood everything, and that you got your job done correctly. The first time that she told you to do it. No wonder she had been a drill sergeant.

He laughed softly, and gave a quick, silent prayer to Buddha, asking him to protect and look over his family.

_A/N: 1) Bobby Labonte was a NASCAR driver in 1993. He won a few races in his career, and, as far as I know, is still racing._

_2) Major Brummer is a Buddhist, although he will occasionally ask other deities for help or guidance. He is also a family man._

_3) Leave a review, and let me know if there is anything drastically wrong with this chapter. I appreciate any and all reviews._


	6. Music and Mayhem

_For those of you coming in at this chapter, please be aware that I have rewritten it to change the original version, just to correct some errors, as well as clean it up. _

_And we have a bit of an up time interlude-_

_Seven months ago…_

"Bills, junk, junk, more junk, bills" Captain Lily Brummer was sorting through her mail, walking back to her kitchen, and hopefully a pot of strong coffee. When James was late for something, he would always bring out a special brand of coffee that he kept hidden, and make a large pot. She smiled, knowing that he was going to owe her breakfast as well. Missing an important occasion like an anniversary was something inexcusable, and he almost always made it on time. Last night, however, something had come up, and he hadn't shown up. She had spent the evening in her living room, waiting for him to come through the door, with a dozen roses. He had never come home.

She walked into the kitchen, expecting James to be there, ready to shoo her back into the dining room until he was done cooking. She looked up, eyes narrowing. There was no coffee, and James was nowhere in sight. Lily frowned, and walked back out the doorway, heading to the dining room, thinking that perhaps he had gotten up early, or gotten home late, depending on how you looked at it, and prepared breakfast as an apology. No one was in the dining room either.

"Mrs. Brummer?" She whirled, features forming into a mask of suspicion. No one called her Mrs. Brummer, everyone, except her recruits, called her Lily. She had made it clear that _none_ of her recruits made house calls. Ever.

"Mrs. Brummer?"

She answered the door, and her eyes widened, seeing the two men in dress uniforms. "Ma'am, may we come in?" Lily stepped aside, nodding dumbly. What had happened to James? Was he all right? Was he- she shook herself mentally. She would never ever let herself finish that thought.

"Ma'am, I have some news about your husband, Major James Brummer."

"What-" she closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and continued, "What happened? Where's James?"

"I'm sorry ma'am. Your husband is missing, presumed dead." Lily felt the world spin, and a scream echoed in her ears. _That's me_, she thought. _That's me. I'm screaming._

"Mommy?" All three adults spun around, startled. Two dark haired girls had come down the stairs, looking frightened. "Mommy, what's wrong? Where's daddy?" Lily blinked, holding back tears. She felt a kick in her abdomen, and ran a hand over her belly. Her son was kicking again, but this time, it felt different. She felt the world spin again, and saw her twin daughters worried faces, before she collapsed.

"Tom! Call 911, she's gone into shock!"

"Right. Get her stabilized!"

Nothing anyone said made any sense to Lily, who was lying on her living room floor, jerking. She was only aware of two things. One, her husband was missing, and two, her son was a month early.

***

General Thomas O'Neill was sitting at his desk when they came.

"General O'Neill? We're sorry to disturb you, sir." He looked up, heart plummeting when he saw the two men in dress uniforms standing in his office doorway.

"Come in gentlemen. Can I offer you something to drink?" General O'Neill's voice was steadier then one would believe. He knew what these two men were here for. He had done this on a few occasions as well. He stood up, going to an oak cabinet, which he opened, taking out a bottle of scotch and three glasses.

"No thank you sir. We are on duty, and the regulations," the man smiled stiffly. "I'm sure you understand. We have some news for you, if you would care to sit down?"

General O'Neill sat, a shot glass clasped in his hand. "Sir, your son, Lieutenant Dominic O'Neill, is missing, presumed dead."

He swallowed convulsively, and knocked the drink back. "Get out," he said thickly. The men stared at him, before standing up. "Sir, if you need any-"

General O'Neill threw his glass at the man, and snarled "Get the fuck out of my office!" The men left with no further prompting. The General sat back down behind his desk, and looked at his paperwork, almost forgotten. He picked up his pen again, and began to work. The forms and words began to blur together. He put his pen down, and rubbed his eyes. He had been in the military long enough to know that the pain of losing someone never got any easier. It just got easier to push aside, or ignore completely.

The general suddenly realized that he was doing the same thing to his son. He choked, and stood up, running to the bathroom connected to his office.

General Thomas O'Neill threw up, until there was nothing left and he was only dry heaving. His son was gone, missing, and no power on earth would bring the boy back. He heaved again.

After a few minutes, he stood up, wiping his mouth. He flushed the toilet, and went over to the sink, where he began splashing cold water on his face. He sighed, straightened up, and slammed his fist into the bathroom mirror.

The mirror gave a satisfying crash as it shattered, the pieces falling to the floor. His boots crunched on the shards as he made his way back to his desk, and he looked around, and saw his aid staring at him through the open door. "Go back to work Charles. I'm fine." He sounded better than he felt.

***

Anthony Newman was in his garage, tinkering with a hot-rod motor when he saw the uniformed men approaching his property. He frowned, wiping his hands on a rag. He turned to his son, who was studying a car, holding a paintbrush in a loose grip.

"Akira, go get your siblings and your mother." His son turned to him, eyebrows raised slightly. "Don't argue. Go get them!" The boy nodded, before pelting through the garage door and into the house, looking nervous.

Anthony wiped his hands on the rag again, ridding them of any trace of grease, before he grabbed a crowbar that was sitting on a worktable. He wasn't taking any chances. Living in Richmond had taught him that two men in suits coming to your house was never good news. He had moved to Virginia for a change of climate, and now he was wishing that he had stayed in Georgia.

"Excuse me sir, are you Anthony Newman?"

He gripped the crowbar tighter behind his back, preparing to clobber them. "Might be me," he said cautiously. "It'd depend on who's doing' de askin'." His tone was slightly hostile, and the crowbar was digging into his palm rather painfully.

"I'm Major Thomas Bond. I have news regarding your son, one Captain Dirk Newman. May we come in?"

Anthony relaxed, and put the crowbar back on the table. The men must be coming about some commendation or other. That, or his son had landed in the lock-up again, and he was getting information about another upcoming trial. The boy never had very good temper control. He had improved since he had joined the military, but if someone said the wrong thing to him… He shuddered, not wanting to think about the last time someone had said the wrong thing.

Soon, all twelve of the Richmond Newman clan, minus Dirk, was seated in the living room across from the two military men. Major Bond cleared his throat, and looked at the assembled family. "I'm afraid that I don't have the best news for you," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sure that Captain Newman let all of you know the inherent risks of life in the military, and later in the freelance squad that he worked with."

Everyone nodded. They all knew that Dirk had been snapped up by an independent group that had a contract with the US military, and that it was riskier than the normal channels of the armed forces.

"Yesterday afternoon at one o'clock pm Eastern Standard Time, there was an accident during a routine test flight." Major Bond swallowed, and clenched his hands, before looking back up. "They were testing a new engine type, when something went wrong. Captain Newman vanished, along with his superior officer, Major Brummer, and a junior officer, Lieutenant O'Neill."

Major Bond's companion stepped in. "The three of them are missing, and following the investigation, when no trace was found, they were presumed dead. They have not yet been officially declared as such, pending further investigation. At this time, they are MIA."

The silence that followed was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife. The eldest woman in the room was the first to speak up. "Major, I am sure that there must be some mistake. My son and his fellow officers have always been careful."

Major Bond cringed internally. This must be Hitomi Newman, the mother. Mothers, even foster mothers like Mrs. Newman, were always the hardest to deal with. "No ma'am. I'm sorry, but the investigators were thorough. There is no trace of your son or his two fellow officers."

One of the Newman boys jumped up from his perch on the back of a plush sofa. "Ya'll are lyin!" he screamed, leaping towards the men. "No trace means dey aren't dead! Ya'll are liars!" Two identical boys-the twins, Alonzo and Haru-grabbed their older brother and forcefully restrained him in a wrestling hold.

A girl looked out of the stairwell, and told them to leave in an extremely bored tone, before things got too violent.

The men left as fast as they could, not wanting to see what a "violent" reaction would be. The cries that followed them to their car were loud and unholy, as though they had been made by a pack of demons. In all fairness, the Newman clan could have passed for demons; Major Bond thought as he roared away in the Crown Victoria.

"He is lyin, ain't 'e dad?" the boy who had almost assaulted the military personnel asked, voice cracking. He looked hopefully over at his father, willing it to be true. No evidence meant that nothing had happened. Dirk, and the midget and Major B were just playing a joke, right…? Dirk might not have been a blood relation, but they were still family, a fact that no one would dispute.

"One can only hope, Hitoshi," the Newman patriarch replied, sighing heavily. "It's all any of us can do." He sat down on the sofa that the informers had vacated a few minutes ago, and cradled his head in his hands.

"Daddy," the girl spoke up, tone still bored, "Dirk ain't gonna be dead." She shot a glare at Haru, who looked like he had been about to contradict her statement, and continued. "Dirk ain't nevah gonna let someone like that ol' Grim Reaper stop him from getting home, one way or another."

Anthony nodded his thanks, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Ah guess so," he finally muttered.

***

_Now back to our regularly scheduled programming…_

Captain Newman sat in the back of the truck, fists clenching in anger. He, the major, and the kid had all trusted Colonel Hogan, and the bastard had let the Nazis take them. He growled low in his throat, mental gears churning as he contemplated the murder of a senior officer. Newman glanced over at the five German soldiers sitting in the back of the truck, and glowered at them.

They repositioned their holds on their rifles, letting the Georgian know exactly who held the power. He was in no position to complain. Newman leaned back on the bench, and began contemplating more homicide-possibly more immediate than the death of Colonel Hogan.

Someone touched the captain's arm, startling him. Lieutenant O'Neill was looking up at him, eyes wide in fear. Newman twisted so that his back was blocking the guards view, and murmured "What's wit ya, kid?"

O'Neill gulped, green eyes getting even bigger. "Are they going to kill us?"

It was times like these that Newman was reminded of how painfully naïve O'Neill was- and how painfully young to be in war. The kid read everything he could get his hands on, knew everything about the Nazi regime- probably more than most history buffs, and still couldn't understand why people did what they did.

"Naw," he muttered reassuringly. "Dey can't kill us yet- we're too impor'ant for 'em. 'Member?" He grinned in what he hoped was a reassuring way and wrapped and arm around O'Neill's shoulder. "Go ta sleep, huh? When ya wake up 'gain, Ah'll be 'ere, same as de major."

O'Neill knew that his older friend was probably lying to him, but right now, he didn't care. Lies were good at a time like this. It beat the alternative. If Dirk said it was going to be alright, he'd believe him, just so he didn't have to face reality. He wanted nothing more than to go home, or wake up and realize that the last ten months had only been a horrible nightmare.

He yawned, and glanced over at Major Brummer, who appeared to be praying. That was strange. Major Brummer rarely prayed. He had always joked that the day Major Brummer prayed was the day the universe would explode. Then again, considering that they were in the middle of World War Two, it probably already had.

Dominic strained his hearing, and finally Brummer looked up. "At ease, lieutenant," he murmured, and pointed at Newman. Dominic craned his neck, and saw that Captain Newman's head had tilted back, and he was breathing deeply, completely asleep.

Then, inexplicably, Major Brummer began singing. "_From the Halls of Montezuma, to the Shores of Tripoli…_" O'Neill blinked. He had known that the major had been picked up from the military after he graduated from an academy, but he hadn't known it had been the Marine Corps.

"_We will fight our nation's battles, on the shores and land and sea…_"

Newman snorted, and jerked awake. He yawned, and then grinned when he heard what the major was singing. "No offense, majah," he drawled sleepily, "But Ah prefer Anchors Aweigh." He cleared his throat, and then hummed the opening verse to the Naval Hymn.

Dominic grinned, listening to the musical duel going on between the captain and the major. Whereas the major had an even, on-key baritone, Captain Newman had an off-key tenor, and, considering that it was Newman, it was probably deliberately off-key.

"_Through our last night ashore, drink to the foam until we meet once more…_"

In his mind's eye, Newman saw the replay of his last night on the USS Chicago, before he transferred permanently to the Hellstorm Squadron. The entire complement of enlisted ship rats had thrown him a party- one that ended in a major hangover for Newman, and a uniform that smelled like beer. Not to mention all the beers that his bunk mates had poured into his hair…

O'Neill grinned, and waited for Major Brummer and Captain Newman to finish before he added his two cents to the military hymns. "_Here they come zooming to meet our thunder, At 'em boys, give 'er the gun…_" O'Neill's voice was the lightest and mellowest of the three, albeit slightly off tune.

Corporal Franz Schmitt watched the three Americans, who were apparently partaking of some strange ritual. First, the Negro major had started singing something-haunting, but beautiful, and then the enormous airman with the strange accent had sung something that he recognized- the American's Kriegsmarine hymn.

And the youngest one, a boy no older that Franz's own little brother, had concluded the ritual with a song that the American Luftwaffe had been singing at one of the Stalags. Were all Americans as crazy as this trio? It must be, otherwise they would never have been able to triumph over the forces of Germany…

He didn't understand the significance of what they were singing, but it meant something to them. The major had tear tracks on his face, and he had been rubbing his nose. Corporal Schmitt realized that whatever they had been singing, it held a great deal of emotion for the major. He shook his head, and returned his attention to what the trio was singing. It was a different song now, and one that he was pretty sure _wasn't_ authorized by any of the American or Allied forces.

"_Here we are, born to be kings; We are the princes of the-_"

One of the older guards had apparently had enough of the singing, because he pointed his rifle at the Americans and snarled one of the few bits of English that he knew. "Shut the hell up."

All three Americans blinked in unison, but they stopped singing. Corporal Schmitt had been watching them closely, and giggled, unable to help himself.

The captain had heard him, Franz realized, because he said something that elicited a laugh from the other two. Captain Newman, in what appeared to be a reckless disregard for his own safety, began singing again. Major Brummer sighed, and shook his head, burying his face in his hands.

However, as the song progressed, Major Brummer became more relaxed, and even joined in. "_Here I stand, helpless and left for dead-_"

O'Neill smiled, recognizing the song. He added his voice to the mix, studiously ignoring the looks from the Gestapo major in the front of the truck. If they annoyed him enough, the man might just execute them before they reached their destination-it was, at the very least, a much more comforting thought than spending another two or so years in a Gestapo cell.

Finally, it appeared that the major had had enough of the singing, because he turned around, exasperation and fury evident on his face. "You three will shut up _now_!" he barked. "If you want to survive this encounter intact, I suggest you cease that Gott verdammt noise!" Major Viktor Remmer despised singing and Allied soldiers. He especially hated _this _group of soldiers.

The singing got on his nerves. It was so…cheerful, in a world with so much misery. What right did the Allies have to be happy? They should be cowering, or begging the Fuhrer to spare their miserable lives-after all, it was the Allies fault that this war had started in the first place. They should be suing for peace, not continuing to fight or continuing on with the merry little lives. All this happiness and sickeningly cheerful good will just added salt to the wound, as far as he was concerned.

"_Here we are, born to be kings; We are the princes of the universe-_"

That was when the major lost it. "Stopp die Laster, verdammt!" he bellowed. The rage in his voice and posture was emanating in waves in every direction. His mood and demeanor seemed to promise a slow, painful death for anyone who didn't comply _now_. The driver, sensing danger, stalled the truck immediately. Major Remmer motioned for the guards to get the three prisoners out of the truck. The major stalked off the road and into the woods, drawing his service pistol. He was going to teach the verdammt Americans a lesson if it killed him.

The party halted in a small clearing, and Remmer turned around, face contorted with rage into a gruesome Halloween mask. He grabbed the smallest one-the group's "pretty boy" and forced him to his knees. "You two," he snarled, waving his gun at the other two Americans, "Will learn this lesson, and learn it well." His accent became thicker with each word he spoke, until his speech was almost as garbled as Newman's. "For every order that you fail to follow, this one," he pointed at O'Neill, who was shaking in terror, "will receive the beating that the three of you would have received separately. Verstehn?"

Major Brummer and Captain Newman froze stock still. A vein in Newman's forehead was pulsing madly, the only indicator of any emotion whatsoever in the two American officers. Brummer's face had become impassive, eyes staring blankly through the Gestapo agent.

The sound of multiple rifles being cocked made everyone freeze. Brummer and Newman didn't even react to the noise, while O'Neill looked like he was about to pass out. "I don't think so, Fritz," the leader of the partisan group snarled, tone mocking, but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of steel.

Major Remmer turned around, and blinked in surprise. A fine German gun, a Sturmgewehr 44 if he wasn't mistaken, was pointed at his nose. The face of the man holding it, what little the major could see, looked even colder and more unforgiving than the metal of the gun's barrel.

"Put 'em up, Fritz," the man ordered again, this time in lightly accented German.

Remmer, despite his precarious situation, smirked disdainfully. He was an Aryan, one of the Master Race. This man…this sub-human, couldn't harm him. "Nein, Englisch," he replied arrogantly. "It is you who should surrender." His tone conveyed his self-assurance, and the air of someone who was used to being obeyed immediately.

Corporal Franz Schmitt had been listening to the side of the conversation that he could understand, and what he had understood made him queasy. Couldn't this verdammt man see that they were outnumbered? He readjusted his grip on his rifle, and realized that he was sweating profusely. He was nervous, and he really didn't want to die! He adjusted his rifle again, and felt a gun barrel press into the small of his back.

"Don't even think about it, Fritzy," a man hissed into the terrified corporal's ear. Schmitt didn't know what the man had said, but the gun was a clear enough message. The young man took a deep breath, and sent a quick prayer to God, asking for forgiveness for what he was about to do.

Having always been a bit of a pacifist, Corporal Schmitt had avoided the war and the Nazi party for as long as possible. When joining had become inevitable, he had gone to the Luftwaffe, hoping that he would never be sent to the frontlines, where he would have to hurt people. But now, he was going to throw away all of his principles to save a boy he had only known for less than an hour.

"_Swing heil!_" he yelled, and smashed his rifle into the Gestapo major's skull. The man fell with a sickening crunch, the back of his skull turning red. Schmitt swayed dizzily, wondering absently why his stomach felt so strange. Was this what murder felt like…- He looked down, and saw the front of his uniform turn red as blood blossomed from a bullet hole in his abdomen.

"Oh," he said softly, and crumpled to the ground. Had he at least made a difference? Would his friends in the Swing clubs remember him after they woke up from this nightmare world? He laughed softly, his mother's words coming back to haunt him as he lay on the forest floor. _Franz! Stop being so rash, you silly boy!_ He felt strange, as though he were floating. Was this what dying felt like then?

Colonel Hogan looked down at the young German soldier, whose lifeblood was now pouring onto the soil. He glared at the partisan who had shot the youth and snarled "Was that necessary? Why in the hell did you shoot him?" He wanted to keep the fatality count as low as possible.

The large man who had shot the German shrugged and spat on the ground. "'E was only a _Bosch_," he muttered in a thick French accent. "What difference does one more dead make?"

Unfortunately, one of Corporal Schmitt's fellow guards had heard the partisan. He turned sharply and stalked forward, completely ignoring the guns pointed in his direction. He scowled at the man who had shot Franz and snarled "Warum die-" he paused, and started again "Do no' speak ill of de dead or dying, Frenchman!" He pointed at the corporal, who was lying on the ground, very still and pale, one hand pressed to his stomach. "Franz is younger brother, or nephew, per'aps your son. Vould you do dis to zem?"

Colonel Hogan stepped between the two arguing men, and told them both to shut up. He turned to the German sergeant, and said "We'll get Franz to a doctor, and," he grinned, "You get to spend the rest of the war in an English prison… Now move!" He gestured sharply with his rifle, and the group moved out of the clearing.

***

Captain Newman stretched, arms hitting the sides of the cargo plane that Hogan had arranged to meet them. How, he still wasn't sure, but he was grateful. Soon, he and his compatriots, and the guards, would be back in England. He could go back to flying his Raptor, the kid would go back to terrorizing the Martians and the scientists, and Major B would be browbeating anyone who had gone near his beloved planes during their extended absence.

And the three of them were going to figure out how to get the hell out of there.

Newman grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. Things were definitely getting back to normal.

***

_Author's notes: Okay, so it's still a cliffhanger. But things are wrapping up!_

_B- Sturmgewehr 44s: produced in 1944. Hitler liked these guns-_ a lot._ There were over 3000 models made in '44, and have numerous offshoots today._

_C- Martians are from the Martian Room. I read about them in a book about World War Two, but can sadly no longer remember their official name... They did, however, deal in intelligence of one sort or another._

_D- Sorry about the long wait for an update, and then only getting a rewrite. This has taken me a few months to write, what with summer homework and AP homework getting in the way…_

_Expect another update sometime around December. _


End file.
